“There, then,” said the curate; “I will speak to Mme. Cantinet, and send her to you.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” said the doctor; “I am going home, and she lives in the next house.”
The dying seem to struggle with Death as with an invisible assassin; in the agony at the last, as the final thrust is made, the act of dying seems to be a conflict, a hand-to-hand fight for life. Pons had reached the supreme moment. At the sound of his groans and cries, the three standing in the doorway hurried to the bedside. Then came the last blow, smiting asunder the bonds between soul and body, striking down to life’s sources; and suddenly Pons regained for a few brief moments the perfect calm that follows the struggle. He came to himself, and with the serenity of death in his face he looked round almost smilingly at them.
“Ah, doctor, I have had a hard time of it; but you were right, I am doing better. Thank you, my good Abbe; I was wondering what had become of Schmucke—”
“Schmucke has had nothing to eat since yesterday evening, and now it is four o’clock! You have no one with you now and it would be wise to send for Mme. Cibot.”
“She is capable of anything!” said Pons, without attempting to conceal all his abhorrence at the sound of her name. “It is true, Schmucke ought to have some trustworthy person.”
“M. Duplanty and I have been thinking about you both—”
“Ah! thank you, I had not thought of that.”
“—And M. Duplanty suggests that you should have Mme. Cantinet—”
“Oh! Mme. Cantinet who lets the chairs!” exclaimed Pons. “Yes, she is an excellent creature.”